It's too close to home and it's too near the bone

[rigobert]

What the hell is in a year, anyway? Or three? In a cosmic sense, you're right back where you started. In another, you're just one more two-step closer to oblivion. Three years. How many miles is that? How many kisses? How many cigarettes and alcohol-induced trances still trying to figure it all out has it been? And I wonder "am I nearer or farther?" I still remember it, vividly. You had to go vote, while the polls were still open. "I'll see you tomorrow!" But he was lying. I didn't see him until four days later. It were as though I blinked and a meaningful, ordered universe and benevolent God suddenly unraveled before my eyes. And the days went on, for me, and not for him. Sense took an indefinite holiday. My friends performed artificial respiration on my heart and brought me back to life. It was then a year, now two, and suddenly another. Three years. And I realize all the miles and kisses and late nights keep coming. They didn't stop for me, as they did for him; I am still here. And though I may forget, as time is apt to make you do, be it a day, a year or three, I am happy to be. And I miss you, man.

and so, tonight, I want to celebrate life.

And I am going.

oh, and I still hate automobiles

intergalactic, planetary, planetary, intergalactic